


Empty Hands Over Smouldering Ash

by ExcessSummer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, BAMF John, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protector!John, Seer!Mycroft, Slow Burn, Tracker!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExcessSummer/pseuds/ExcessSummer
Summary: John Watson is a rare and extraordinarily Gifted protector who could have gotten all manner of high-paying jobs in the highest echelons of government. When he unwittingly saves half of the British powers-that-be while on MI5 duty, everyone predicted that he would either accept the many generous offers that were flung his way or use his influence to further his own career.But then again, whoever said that John Watson was predictable?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trolling the Sherlock fanfic fandom for a long while now, and have been in awe of the fantastic writers that have contributed their time and talent to us avid readers. I know I am not, in any way, of the same calibre as many of you, but I hope you all enjoy my humble contribution nonetheless. Please do leave comments when you can; I do so love reading them!

John stretched his neck sideways until he heard his left shoulder pop, then rubbed it swiftly to chase the lingering pain away. Careful not to dislodge the earpiece whose wires snaked its way down his chest and onto the receiver jammed into his inner pocket, he bent slightly at the waist, groaning softly as he felt his joints creak. _Damn it, I’m getting too old for this_.

“Old man Watson,” a voice crackled into his ear, and John grinned as he recognised Greg’s teasing voice on the other end of the line. “Stop doing calisthenics. There’s really nothing you can do to make arthritis go away at this late age.”

“Sod off, Lestrade,” John said good-naturedly, straightening up from his stretch and sweeping his eyes once more around the mansion grounds, this time noting the changed positions of the various celebrities and government officials he was supposed to be guarding on the lawn below. “And keep your eyes on the rest of the perimeter, not on me.”

“It’s just that you’re so pretty tonight,” Greg trilled, mock-falsetto. 

At that, John turned towards the gates and flipped the perched night-vision cameras the double bird, knowing that Greg and the rest of the government security detail on duty were watching. True enough, he heard Greg guffaw loudly, the sound coming over scratchy and distorted over the wires.

“You better hope they don’t review these tapes, Captain,” Greg said, laughter in his voice. “They won’t think twice about sending you back into retirement, you know.”

John chuckled. “After I dressed up in a tux for them? No way.” He turned back in time to see the tell-tale silver lights of Gifts now being called to use, some stronger than others. “Alright then, boys. Watch the grounds. Looks like the wheeling and dealing has begun.”

“Showtime,” Greg muttered as they all watched events unfold from their various posts; John could imagine everyone leaning forward to keep a closer eye on their respective assignments, be it government official or any one of the rich and famous that dotted the current landscape. This was, after all, the reason why they were even all here in there first place. 

“Look at them go, the bastards,” Greg said again, after a moment of silence. “Wining and dining and stabbing in the back, all with a smile. God, it makes me wish I’m just back at the Yard, tracking down the average murderer.”

“Mate, the whole bloody business makes me wish I was back in Afghanistan, and that’s saying something.” John shook his head as he fixed a critical eye towards the back of the crowd, watching the bushes and the assorted frippery that seemed to always accompany this level of ostentation, searching for anything that seemed out of place – after all, he may not be perfectly happy with his current assignment, but it went against the grain for him to let his guard down. Seeing nothing that aroused his suspicion at that point, John then looked towards the well-lit house, quickly but methodically doing a visual scan of every floor. Almost all the windows were empty, except for one set on the second floor where three figures were sharply silhouetted, all of them standing rather still, likely in conversation.

As John watched, the door opened and a fourth figure joined the group, silver light suddenly shining against the buttery yellow glow cast by the room’s lamps. The way the other figures now seemed to move back and away from the newcomer, as if they had been startled or threatened, twigged something deep in John’s gut, and his senses went on full alert.

“Lestrade, tracking needed on the second floor, west wing, window side,” he said urgently into his microphone, launching himself into action even as he spoke. “Four live ones, suspicious activity. Repeat, suspicious activity. I’m going in.”

John heard the sudden burst of static that meant Greg had begun calling on his Gift to help him track precisely who it was that stood inside the location he had named, and blocked it out momentarily to focus on sliding down the fire escape without losing his footing. Inwardly he thanked his lucky stars that as the highest-ranking officer in the retinue he had been stationed above everything, which meant he only needed to rely on gravity to get him faster to his destination, but even then he was out of breath by the time he arrived at his intended floor.

“I need that tracking, Lestrade, stat,” John half-panted, half-growled as he leapt over the last low barricade that separated him and the hallway entrance. “ETA one minute.”

“Alright, Captain, hang on. Second floor, west wing, window side: Lady and Lord Lexington. Mycroft Holmes.” A beat. “Can’t seem to track the fourth. Bloody hell.” Greg cursed even more colourfully under his breath. “Careful on the entrance, Captain. Door opens outwards. I’m sending others in, too.”

“Roger on that,” John replied, putting on a burst of speed that he knew he would pay for later in terms of leg pain, but Greg’s inability to track one of the occupants of the room he had specified told him enough. _Assassin_ , he thought. _Damn it_.

Skidding around a corner John slowed down to a quick jog, now purposefully treading lighter to avoid spooking his target. At the same time, he called upon his Gift, a silver orb of light coalescing in his left palm, sharpening to a point in anticipation. Then he ran his mind through a couple of scenarios, trying to quickly think of a plan that would offset the unfortunate advantage that the outward-opening door presented to his opponent; the few precious seconds where his sight would be obscured by the heavy wooden doors could easily spell the difference between life and death. 

John came to a stop in front of his target room, looking around to see if the reinforcements that Lestrade had sent in were anywhere to be found. Finding no one else in the corridor, John tentatively put an ear to the door’s surface to try and discern the conversation within; he heard a few terse unintelligible mumblings, and then a female voice, high and hoarse with fear, said clearly: “Please, for the love of God, I’m telling you – we are not who you think we are!”

_Ah, fuck it,_ John thought, and flung the double doors wide.

+

The first thing that struck John the moment he rushed into the room was the impossible amount of light that seemed to be blazing. A strange wavering in the air that reminded him of the desert haze at noon stood between him and three well-dressed individuals – and when the wavering solidified for a split second, apparently distracted by his sudden appearance, John’s attention zeroed in on the bulky vest strapped to the chest of a faceless man.

Assassin. Vest. _Bomb_.

Instinctively, John swept his right arm in a wide arc, finishing with an open palm, throwing up a shield so strong and wide that the three dignitaries were pushed backwards while the faceless man slid away from them for a few inches, and was now within John’s reach. Thoroughly distracted from his purpose now, the man solidified completely and whirled around to face John, and John had a fleeting impression of masks and blinking lights and a cruel twist of lips before he realised that the assassin was already reaching for a button on his Semtex-studded vest. 

With no time or thought to spare, John called on his Gift for one last, desperate move – and for a shivering moment everything went still, time suspending, slowing down to seconds …

… and then his world was subsumed in white fire and a flare of endless agony.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who have taken the time to read, bookmark, and comment on my work -- you guys have given me such a boost and such inspiration to keep this story going! Going forward, I shall try my level best to publish a chapter a week so I don't keep anyone waiting. Fingers crossed and wish me luck!
> 
> ~ Summer

_John dropped down to the sand, crawling towards the bags stacked high against the outbuilding, trying to see despite the grit that stung his eyes. The flare of enemy Gifts lit up the sky in a macabre display of quasi-fireworks; their answering flares were becoming less and less by the minute, and John knew he was needed in the front lines or else they would all die._

_His medical kit was stupendously heavy, but he didn’t dare leave any of the equipment behind, so he crawled forward, aiming for the western front where the situation would likely be most dire, arms burning and lungs full of sand as he inched on in an awkward crawl-push-rest crawl-push-rest rhythm._ Slow and sure wins the race, Watson, _he thought._ Slow and sure wins the race.

_From a distance he heard the screams of the dying coming from the east; part of him, the doctor part of him, wanted nothing more than to get up, use his Gift to shield himself, and run to the aid of his injured comrades, but he knew that the only thing keeping him safe right now was the fact that he was not using his Gift, and therefore had no tells. The other part of him, the one that loved and longed and feared, pulled on him just as strongly; James had been stationed in the eastern barracks last night, which was why they hadn't been able to meet up as they usually did. But John also knew that James would never forgive him if John set his personal feelings first before the good of the majority – his duty was to see to his squadron’s health and safety, and he was expected to do that first, whatever the consequences._

_And damn it, he_ was _going to do it, but he was slow, much too slow. In sudden resolve John clenched his teeth and got up to a crouch, cautiously testing to see if anyone from the opposing side had spotted his movements; not sensing any immediate danger, he broke into a full run, feeling the sand give way under his pounding feet, making the movement twice as hard and his speed half as fast. Finally, heart hammering and muscles spasming with the effort, he managed to reach the nearest sandbag pile that marked the beginning of their western defences – and currently, the makeshift triage area – safely._

_He dropped, panting, beside Murray, and the other man turned to him in obvious relief. “Ah, bugger me for a mile, Captain, I thought I’d never see you.” Murray moved slightly aside in deference, revealing at least five injured men in front of him, waiting for medical attention; he was John’s assistant in situations like these, having been trained as a medic, but wasn’t a surgeon like John. “Norton almost gave up on me, here. Bloody insurgents have at least two blasters among them.”_

_John swallowed hard against the fear that bubbled up in his gut at the news – the Gift for blasting was rare, and having two on the enemy side meant they were going to be decimated in even greater numbers than he had anticipated – but worse than that was the realisation that right now, in the eastern flank, only James had the Gift that could even remotely withstand one blaster. And if he had to fight two …_

_“Cap?” Murray asked, uncertain, and John realised that he had, without thinking, begun to stand up again and had faced eastward, his intention clear, if not his motivations._

_John looked down at Murray, torn between the need to do his sworn duty and his desire to just forget everything and fight by James’s side. Murray simply stared back at him, silent, but his eyes told him everything John didn’t want to know: that this was where he was needed, right now, and if he left, whoever may have had the slightest chance of survival would be deprived of even that._

_Before John could make up his mind, a fresh wave of screams reached his ears – and, as one, John and Murray turned in time to see a blinding flash of light create a dome of heat and ash and death, rising high in the arid air towards the eastern side of their camp._

_John fell to his knees, his surgeon’s kit falling from his lifeless hands, as he watched the wraith-like figures in the middle of the blast waver and, within a few seconds, disintegrate in the aftermath. Dimly he thought he heard someone cry out in anguish – a high, keening sound of despair – and was astonished to realise that it had come from him._

_James …_

+

“You are one tough bastard,” Greg Lestrade said, shaking his head as he sat himself on the lone chair beside John’s hospital bed. “Three cardiac arrests in one stretch, the doc said. One would think you were trying to die, Cap, or that maybe you’re enjoying your bit of a lie-in here a little too much.”

_You have no idea._ “Well, you did say something about me going into retirement,” John said mildly, forcing himself to smile and willing the ghostly images of the past to the back of his mind. He had enough time to deal with them every time he closed his eyes, after all. “Let it not be said that I don’t take your suggestions seriously, Greg.”

“Retirement?” Greg chuckled humourlessly. “Wasn’t retirement you were heading for, honestly. You didn’t see the rubble we had to dig through to get to you. Sure, you kept the bigwigs safe, but if you hadn’t been able to sustain your protective dome even when you’d been knocked out, there’d have been nothing for us to get to.”

John shrugged. “At least it worked.”

“Cap, it didn’t just work. You single-handedly saved something like half the British government. I mean, look at this.” Greg swept his hand towards John. “You may be in hospital because you still need to be, but I can tell you that those linens on your bed and that pillow your head is on and that parsnip soup thing you just had in that fancy bowl are not standard issue. I’ve spent enough time in these hellholes, I should know.”

“They did tell me it was all from Mycroft Holmes. Strange, I’d never have pegged him to be the thankful type. None of those bureaucrats usually are.” John pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then shook his head, deciding to table his doubts for another day. “Anyhow, that’s not important. Have you got any intel on the assassin? How’d he manage to slip through the outside perimeter?”

Greg frowned darkly, reaching into his coat pocket for a thick manila envelope and handing it over to John. “All we’ve got is in there. Alex Hughes, forty-two. Gift for concealment, which explains why I couldn’t track the son of a bitch.”

John nodded, opening the packet and pulling out the dossier. He didn’t get the chance to take a real look at the man that night, but the photo he now held showed a balding white male in dark glasses, looking around a street. _Telephoto lens_ , John thought. _Surveilled_. “Possible ties?”

“Still looking into that. We’ve got Donovan and Anderson on the case.”

John raised a brow, holding the photo up. “This guy had obviously been on surveillance. And we still have no leads on possible ties or reasons?”

“Photo and file came from Holmes himself, so I wouldn’t be surprised if this guy had tripped off some Secret Service wires or something. But if he did, they’re not telling us. Yet.” Greg shook his head. “At least there hadn’t been any more parties since you went down, Cap, so even if our perp here was part of some greater conspiracy I’m not yet too worried that someone else is going to make a move. Of course, when you get out of here …”

“Hang on,” John said, catching the implication in Greg’s tone and frowning. “What about for when I get out of here?”

Greg grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Haven’t you been told? There’s going to be some fancy shindig for when you do. Medals and such. They’re all practically fighting to get the chance to host it, didn’t you know?”

John groaned. Leave it to the rich to think that the rest of humanity was starved for their accolades. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Wish I was. I just hope you’ve got one more tux hanging in the back of your closet somewhere.”

“Stupid gits. Just what we need right now … more occasions for them to all get together and be shot at like bloody fish in a barrel.” John rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Can’t they just … I don’t know, courier me the medal or something? At least until we’ve got confirmation that this is an isolated case and no one’s going to try again?”

“You got no hope of that, Cap,” Greg laughed good-naturedly, obviously enjoying John’s consternation. “But who knows? Keep your mind open. Maybe you’ll enjoy it, anyway.”

John shook his head in resignation. “Fat chance. Those things are boring as hell. How can anything that fancy be anything else?”

“Well,” Greg said, “The last time you suited up, you ended up with an assassin and half of Britain’s finest in your debt. Maybe second time’s the charm.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, so apologies to those wanting a long chapter! Will try and get the next one up by Sunday, so at least it's a bit of a shorter wait. Cheers to everyone still invested in reading this -- you guys are better than a triple murder in a locked room! 
> 
> ~ Summer

It hadn’t yet been two hours, but John was ready to scream.

The night had progressed, more or less, like how he had predicted it: fancy, interminable, and boring. Everyone twittered around him like he was some sort of exotic plant to be admired, the women batting their lashes outrageously and the men all puffing their chests up whenever they managed to corner him somewhere. The only thing that kept him from making his polite excuses and leaving outright was the fact that he hadn’t yet gotten to speak to Mycroft Holmes, who had been his absent benefactor during his convalescence and who had been generous to an almost alarming degree. John had wanted to thank him personally, and as long as he hadn’t managed that he knew he couldn’t yet leave.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

A deep voice to his left startled John out of his reverie; belatedly he realised that he had been staring at the same spot since he had found a quiet, shadowed space in a recessed window seat, just off the main ballroom floor. He turned to see a tall man who was now sitting beside him, blue-green eyes intense. “I’m – what? Sorry?”

“I said, Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John blinked. “Afghanistan – but how …?” 

The man nodded, making shadows move across his face as he did so, and John couldn’t help but notice how very striking he was: sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose and – rather incongruously, he thought – a mess of dark curls on his head. “You’re wearing your dress uniform but you’re obviously uncomfortable with it; it’s either you don’t enjoy the association or that you’ve not worn it in quite some time. I’d wager it’s both. Fabric says you’d had it dry cleaned and ironed probably yesterday, but there are still deep creases left over – dry cleaning never quite manages to straighten out thick cloth after all, so it’s been folded for a while – one year, maybe two, something heavy atop it, most likely linens. The lines around your wrist show you’d been deeply tanned around the same time, and that you’ve only started to regain your natural colouring recently. So: army man who’s been home for a year or two, from somewhere he could have gotten a tan. Where else have we sent our forces and brought them home fairly recently? Afghanistan … or Iraq.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, feeling like a landed fish. Who _was_ this man and how did he know all of this? “Are you … a seer?”

The man’s eyes widened at the word, as if scandalised at the very thought. “A seer? Don’t be absurd. Anyone with _that_ Gift ends up working for the government and dedicating their lives to the insinuation of their abominably large noses into other people’s business.” He glared at John. “No. My Gift is in observing. I observe everything, and that is how I _know._ ”

“A Gift for observing. I’ve never heard of that, and I’ve met a lot of people with … er, exotic Gifts in my time.” John shook his head. “Amazing.”

Strangely enough, the man did not seem pleased; in fact, he looked slightly taken aback. “You think so?”

John smiled in surprise. “Of course it is. Bloody brilliant.”

“Huh,” the other man said, frowning. “That’s not what other people normally say.”

“Why? What do other people normally say?” 

The man shrugged. “Piss off.”

That made John laugh. “To be fair, I’d understand why they would.”

“Why? I simply point out the obvious.” He sniffed in obvious disdain. “If only people  _observe_ , they’d say the same thing.”

“Well, it might be news to you, but I can imagine how some people might not like hearing their secrets being spilled in public.”

“They’re not secrets, they’re –”

“—obvious, yeah, I know. To you.” John interjected with another smile. “But we don’t all have your Gift. We can’t see what you do. So people get upset.”

Blue-green eyes narrowed at John, as if in contemplation. “But _you_ didn’t get upset.”

“I guess not. No.”

The man raised an eyebrow but said nothing else; instead, he sat back, deeper into the seat, half-hiding his face in shadow. John felt the loss keenly; he hadn’t realised how much he had been enjoying watching the man’s face until he couldn’t see it any more. Wanting to draw the strange man back out into conversation, John shifted slightly on the seat, purposefully angling his body so that some of the light coming from the ballroom would spill into their alcove. “So … you obviously know why I’m here, but why are _you_ here? You don’t strike me as the type who’d go to these fancy-dress things.”

The man chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent a spark down John’s spine. “Well spotted, Captain Watson.” He looked at John again, and with this new half-light, his eyes seemed more luminous and impossible than before. “I am here under duress. I have been made to understand that I would suffer great consequences if I were to find alternate enjoyment tonight, so –” He swept large hands to indicate their whole space, “—here I am.”

John frowned. “You were _forced_ to be here? That hardly sounds fair.”

“No, it isn’t,” the man said with a shrug, “But things have never really been fair, as far as I’m concerned.”

John thought he heard a wistful note in the man’s voice, and felt a sudden, overwhelming need to do what he could to somehow make it up to him. The party was, after all, being held in John’s honour; in some roundabout way, he was just as responsible for keeping this person in this situation as much as whoever it was who dangled the consequences above his head to make him stay. “Well, you might have been forced to be here, but certainly you’re not required to stay here, _here_ , right?”

An errant curl fell over the other man’s forehead as he shook his head slowly. “No.”

John smiled, helplessly charmed. “Then what do you say we get out for some air, then? Maybe go around the paths a little, stretch our legs? I thought I saw a lovely garden –”

He saw the man open his mouth, presumably to respond – but whatever it was he was about to say was interrupted by the sound of a tinkling bell. Distracted, John craned his neck around to see where the sound had come from and saw a stream of people now moving slowly towards the banquet hall.

“Huh. Looks like it’s time for dinner,” John said, taking one last look at the gathering crowd before turning back around to face the other person, fully intending to tell him that he wouldn’t have minded going out to the gardens anyway – but that was as far as he got, because the moment he brought his full attention back to the space beside him, John found it as empty as it was when he had first sat there.

His mysterious stranger had disappeared.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, my apologies for the delay -- real life called and wanted my hours, so I had to oblige. Anyhow, am back with a new chapter!
> 
> Second: to all those who have been faithfully reading and commenting -- you guys are the absolute best. You are the kind of people who keep those of us who write going! Thank you, and I hope you like this newest installment!

They were down to coffee by the time one of the uniformed servants sidled to John’s side. “If it pleases you, Captain Watson, Mr. Holmes would like to see you now.”

John sighed in relief, barely managing to restrain himself from jumping up from his seat. _Finally,_ he thought. “Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

“Then follow me, sir.”

John stood, nodded briefly to the woman who had, for the last thirty minutes, been valiantly trying to strike a conversation with him even when his responses had been limited to vague sounds of assent. Ordinarily he would have obliged her – she was striking, vivacious, and very obviously trying to get him interested if the frequency with which she bent down to flash him were any indication – but he had found himself distracted throughout the meal, trying to see if the man he had sat beside earlier was anywhere to be found. It was in vain, of course, because whoever the man was or whatever it was that he did, he definitely did not seem to care to be with this crowd.

The servant ushered John into a long corridor, flanked by rows upon rows of portraits, every one of their occupants looking grim and uncomfortable. It made John shiver inwardly: he had never been a fan of old paintings, and often – in a fit of fancy – thought they were drawn specifically to make one feel like a pair of eyes were on them, for all of eternity.

Finally, a pair of heavy double doors were opened for John to step through, and he got his first real, good look at Mycroft Holmes: the man was impeccably dressed, standing in the middle of what appeared to be a rather vast library and – for some mysterious reason – was leaning on a silver-tipped umbrella, his left ankle crossed with his right as if he were some sort of caricature made to pose.

“Ah, Captain Watson. So good of you to be here.” Mycroft Holmes smiled at him, then gestured towards a chair with his umbrella. “Please, do sit.”

“Thank you,” John said as he sat down on the indicated seat. “And I don’t just mean the chair. These past few weeks, Mr. Holmes, your generosity has been –”

“Don’t mention it, Captain,” the other man said dismissively as the doors opened again and a different manservant appeared, this time bearing a tray with glasses, an ice bucket, and a bottle of whiskey. “I am the one who is in your debt, and seeing to your comfort during your convalescence was the least I could have done. I am only thankful that we had the foresight to put you in charge of that night’s security.” He paused as the tray and its contents were silently deposited on a console. “Would you care for a glass?” 

“Ah – yes, that would be fine.”

Hooking the umbrella on his right arm to free his hands, Mycroft Holmes poured a generous measure into two tumblers, included two ice cubes in one glass, and left the other untouched. He handed the glass with ice to John, then raised his own in salute. “To your health, Captain Watson.”

John nodded and raised his glass as well even as he wondered, if absently, how this man knew that he always took whiskey with precisely two cubes of ice. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. And to yours, as well.”

The government official nodded somberly. “Ah. Yes. My health.” He sat down on the chair opposite John’s, leant the umbrella against it, then took a quick sip of his drink. “As you very well know, Captain, my health has been under grave threat.”

“Yes, I’d rather gathered that,” John replied drily.

The other man continued speaking as though he had not heard John’s comment, staring at his drink intently. “Although obviously, these things come with the territory. This is not the first time an attempt has been made on my life, but even I have to admit that this was the first time it came so close to being actually successful.” Mycroft Holmes frowned, then looked up to meet John’s eyes. “You’ve seen the files I’ve shared with your team, I hope?”

“Well – yes. Lestrade – that is, our tracker – showed it to me just over a week ago, while I was still in hospital.”

“And I am sure you’ve noticed the … lack?”

“Yes, but I understand.”

Holmes’ brow raised slightly, as if in challenge. “You mean it doesn’t bother you?”

“As the tactical head of that security team, Mr. Holmes, I will be honest with you and say that it did. That it still _does_.” John pursed his lips. “But I also know why certain bits of information are withheld from certain people such as myself. My clearance is limited to a need-to-know basis, and as I’ve already said, I completely understand the reasoning behind that.”

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft Holmes smiled, managing to somehow mix what seemed to be pity and disdain in a single gesture. “The obedience of a soldier."

“Yes, sir.” John kept his face as neutral as possible, and tapped the lip of the tumbler against his forehead in mock salute. “Queen and country.”

For some reason, the smile simply became wider. “Indeed.” The government official sat back, now looking inexplicably pleased. “Well, then. If you are not going to ask the questions I know are in your head, I might as well tell you the answers.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “As I am sure you’ve noticed, Captain, Hughes has been under heavy surveillance these past few months. That he is part of a bigger conspiracy is almost certain; he has had too much success in what he does to convince me otherwise. The – ah – incident that night was the perfect example.”

John frowned. He had expected (or maybe, if he was being honest with himself – he had _hoped_ for) nothing but a thank-you-you’re-welcome chat, perhaps a drink – both of which he got for a protracted duration, true enough – but apparently on top of that he was going to be given classified information by a man who obviously had a bigger agenda than he had initially thought. _What the bloody fuck?_

“As it must have become obvious to you the moment you sensed trouble, there appears to be a mole within the force, planted with obvious forethought and planning.” Holmes went on, his voice now taking on a controlled, measured tone. “Needless to say, this individual has already been discovered, apprehended, and dealt with accordingly.”

John shifted impatiently, annoyance flaring bright in his chest. _Bureaucracy and bloody big words,_ he thought. _It would be the death of me._ “But …?”

The other man lifted an eyebrow at his question. “But what?”

“But you wouldn’t be telling me this if the problem has been solved by simply finding the mole. This isn’t a simple thank you chat, is it?” John sat forward, sharpening his tone. “I’m sorry if this sounds rude, Mr. Holmes, but I would appreciate it if you could speak to me more plainly, with none of the mysterious cloak-and-dagger act that you politicians seem to favour. I’ve never been much for veiled discussion and such.”

John hadn’t thought that it was possible for Mycroft Holmes’ eyebrow to go any higher into his hairline, but apparently it was; he looked as if he was either very impressed with John’s gumption or was about to call in the SIS to get rid of John’s body. “That was … rather astute of you, Captain Watson.”

“John, please,” John said, taking a quick, fortifying sip of his whiskey even as he tried to settle for something like patience. “I prefer first names if it could be helped.” 

“Then perhaps you would feel better if you called me Mycroft rather than the lugubrious _Mister Holmes_ you’ve been using?”

“Fair enough.” John gave a short nod, accepting the change in formality with equanimity. “So, Mycroft – why did you _really_ ask to speak to me tonight?”

Mycroft looked at him for a second, his expression carefully schooled; with a delicate sniff, he reached over the chair he had been sitting on to pull out a thick file folder from seemingly nowhere. “Here is a more complete file on Mr. Hughes, as well as whatever intel we have gathered on the group to which he belongs. The network is rather vast, as you will see, stretching as far as Russia and Japan. There are reports that place sleeper agents in China, Africa, and Israel within that web.”

John looked up from the folder he had just been handed without opening it, tapped it absently on his thigh. “Alright … so you are telling me that this network … has the British government worried?”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Worried is an understatement.” He paused, frowning. “To be precise, we who belong to the government are not just worried for ourselves; after all, we have watchers, trackers, investigators, and even our own protectors. But the thing is that this group does not only target us. Even worse, it targets our families.”

John’s own protector instincts reared at the thought. “Bloody bastards. How do you know this? Threatening letters, anonymous material ...?”

“Those are for amateurs, John. You’re forgetting that these people are very, very good at what they do.” Mycroft shook his head. “As I said a while ago – that night, when you saved all our lives – that is an example. Lord and Lady Lexington, as you probably know, are cousins of the Queen, thrice removed. When Hughes appeared, he told us that it was the royal family link that merited their – and of course, consequently, our – deaths. I recall Lady Lexington telling him that they weren’t that close to the royalty, but he seemed indifferent to the distinction.” 

John recalled the bit of conversation he had overheard through the door: _for God’s sake, we are not who you think we are!_ “Yes, I heard that. She sounded … petrified. It was what made me rush in.”

Mycroft nodded. “And fortuitous timing it was, too. A second too late and Hughes would have detonated the bomb, and we would all – including the people in the garden whom you selflessly protected by enclosing the bomber within your shield, despite the damage it would have done you – be dust by now.”

“That was my job,” John said, shrugging. “My duty.”

“Ah, yes. But that – as you have asked me so bluntly to tell you – is _precisely_ why I have asked you here tonight,” Mycroft said. “As I had already mentioned, we have all been targeted, and so long as this threat has not been neutralised, I wish to make sure that my family is safe. As a protector, I’m sure you understand.” He pulled out a thin envelope, this time from inside his suit jacket and embossed with the initials _MH_ , and handed it to John. “What I _am_ asking is for you to be in my personal employ. I need a protector like you: loyal, honest, and ready to do what it takes to get the job done.” 

John blinked. “Your own protector? But – don’t you already have Anthea? I’ve heard she’s a powerful one, and younger –”

“No, not mine, John.” Mycroft gestured towards the envelope, and John pulled out a single sheet of paper, the heading of which simply said _Contract_. “The protector I need is for my younger brother, Sherlock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ba dum tissss


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit earlier than usual -- I hope you guys continue to enjoy! Your comments and kudos (kudoses?) seriously give me life. Cheers!

“Your brother?” John asked, frowning at the paper blindly. “Why not just gather your family within the manse and keep them there until this thing has been solved and those behind it are in jail?”

“I would if I could. My parents are not a problem; they have accepted the dangers of my profession, but my younger brother refuses all kinds of surveillance, and has staunchly declared that he is going to remain at his own flat even if it killed him. And I worry that it would. Constantly.”

“But if that’s the case, why hire me? He’d just reject me. I might be one person, but he would still see me as part of your retinue. I don’t think that will make him agree to it any more than a whole army would.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not if you do so under the guise of being his flat mate.”

“ _Flat mate_?” John sputtered. “I don’t need a flat mate; I have a perfectly respectable –” 

“—bedsit, yes. But Sherlock’s flat is much bigger, and he can use someone to share the rent, which I can provide. Likewise, I can find you locum work in a nearby clinic, so that you can maintain a semblance of separation, as he is very keen –”

“Hang on,” John said, feeling a headache coming on. This was _definitely_ more than he had bargained for when he stepped into the library. “You want me to pretend to need a flat, share in the rent, practice medicine – which, by the way, I haven’t done in _years_ – just so I can keep a weather eye on your brother?” He gripped the tumbler tightly in one hand even as he fought the urge to crumple the paper he held in the other. “And it hasn’t occurred to you that perhaps he has his own reasons for doing this? That maybe he can protect himself? Or – God forbid – that he would find out?”

“My brother,” Mycroft said with quiet disdain, “ _Is_ perfectly capable of protecting himself. Contrary to what he believes, I _know_ that he is a very smart man, and he has any number of connections everywhere that not even I can keep track of at times despite my best efforts, some of whom can protect him if need be. This threat, however … I fear that this threat is well beyond him, or anyone else he currently knows.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

Mycroft sighed. “Suffice it say that my brother’s – how should I say it? – abilities have preceded him, and that these individuals have taken note. They will use it against him, so that, by extension, he will use it against me and the British government.”

“You mean his Gift.” John frowned. “Does his Gift have anything to do with contradicting yours?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “His Gift and mine are different, but not at odds. They might be even called complementary, but that is wishful thinking – my brother has not willingly worked with me or my Gift for as long as I care to remember.” 

“So then how will his Gift be used against you?”

“Not necessarily his Gift, John. His _abilities_ , which rival mine. Worse still, his curiosity, his need for constant challenge, his … enmity with me – which anyone could play into – to trick him into harm.”

John paused, thinking. “It sounds more like some sort of sibling rivalry to me.”

A small smile seemed to play on Mycroft’s lips. “You can only imagine the Christmas dinners.”

“I don’t even want to dare.” Shaking his head, he refolded the piece of paper – thankfully still unscathed – and slid it back into the envelope, closing the flap and leaning forward to hand it back to Mycroft. “With all due respect, I think I shall have to say no.” 

This time _both_ of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose even as his eyes followed the movement of John’s hand. “But I haven’t even mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother.” John flapped the envelope at Mycroft, who did not make a move to take it. “I thank you for the opportunity – but I think your brother should be given the freedom to choose. And if whatever he chooses to do or not do has repercussions on you, then – as you said – you and your parents have excellent protection. That should suffice.”

Mycroft lifted his gaze to hold John’s. “You don’t understand. My brother cannot be left as he is. He is too vulnerable.”

Tired of holding the envelope out and trying to tamp down on his own growing annoyance over Mycroft’s insistence, John shifted to place it on the side table, putting the unopened thick folder on top of it, and made to rise. “Then I suggest you tell him this and make him understand; chain him to the cellar or something if you have to. At least he’d know what’s going on. He might not like it, but from my experience, the truth is generally preferable to lies.” He placed the tumbler on the table as well. “Thank you for your generosity, _Mr. Holmes_ ,” he said, emphasising the shift back into formality, “During my hospital stay, for tonight’s festivities, and for the offer. None of them were necessary, but you have my thanks, anyway.”

John had already turned away, fully intending to walk out of the library, when Mycroft spoke again. “You didn’t even look at the folder, _John_.”

“Don’t need to,” John said, hearing the return emphasis on his name, but continuing to walk towards the door. 

“You know, I find it strange that you seem to be indifferent to my problem,” Mycroft said then, an odd note in his voice that John could not immediately place. Regret? Sympathy? “After all, you too, have a sister whom you worry about, all the time.”

John froze. “What … what did you just say?”

“Don’t you think it’s hypocritical to tell me to let my brother mind his own business when you cannot seem to do that for your own sibling?” Mycroft continued relentlessly, ignoring his question. “In the end, John, are we really all that different?”

Closing his eyes briefly, John grit his teeth. “That’s none of your business. I can’t believe you would stoop to such a low blow.”

“Needs must.” Mycroft replied mildly. “All I was asking was for you to look at the folder. If, after doing so, you really feel that you do not wish to take my offer, then I will respect your wishes.”

John turned back around to face Mycroft, who – to his surprise – had apparently stood up as well and had followed him, the thick folder now in his right hand and his left holding the umbrella such that it was behind his back, its silver tip winking briefly. Mycroft waggled the folder lightly at him. “Please?”

John frowned, completely unsettled as he stared at the document. He had just been played, he knew, but the worst part was that he didn’t know exactly _how._ “Just one look? And you’ll go tell your brother that he can do what he wants when I do?” 

Mycroft responded with a small nod and offered him the folder again. “I give you my word.”

John hesitated – as he had just demonstrated, Mycroft Holmes was perfectly capable of manipulating good will into something that served his purposes – but right now the eyes that steadily met his contained to guile, no falsehood; at least, none that he could see. He sighed. “Alright. Fine.”

As soon as Mycroft handed him the folder, John walked briskly towards one of the long tables that occupied the middle of the library. He flipped it open and saw once more the surveillance photo of Alex Hughes. There were quite a number of documents that followed it; much was redacted, but from them he more or less understood Hughes’ dangerous nature: a Gift for concealment that made him an effective assassin, and a deadly ability to wield a number of physical weapons that got him at least five high-profile kills before his last, fatal attempt.

There followed a good number of news clippings and web excerpts through which he merely skimmed; without context he would have next to no chance of understanding them, and his desire to simply get this over with overrode his usual curiosity. Finally, he got to the second to the last document, which looked something like a cover for a resume or some sort of bio data – of Mycroft’s brother, apparently, this Sherlock. He ran his eyes down the list, noting the ones that stood out: thirty-five, graduated from Oxford with a degree in advanced chemistry, with honours; bachelor. John had a momentary vision of a man in spectacles, probably balding like Mycroft, maybe a few burns or pockmarks from having to work with chemicals, most likely living alone with a cat or a dog; John wouldn’t put the possibility of this Sherlock being the sort of academic who would talk his ears off going on and on about chemicals or scientific discoveries, and therefore very, very boring. 

_Fat chance I’d want to be a flat mate of someone like that,_ John thought to himself with a small smile, then lifted the document to reveal the last page. It was another surveillance photo, with a name penned in underneath – Holmes, William Sherlock Scott – and John felt his smile slip and a strange buzz of excitement fizz through his veins as he took in the familiar blue-green eyes, aquiline nose, and gorgeous mop of curls.

His mystery man.

His mystery man … was Mycroft Holmes’ brother.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone! Hope you enjoy this one!

John paused in front of 221B Baker Street, checking the small slip of paper that he held in his hand to make sure he had got the correct address. It wasn’t a hard place to find; the Jubilee Line was quite handy, and the door was very clearly marked with brass numbers, gleaming dully against the dark paint. 

 _Alright, calm down_ , he told himself, a mantra that he had kept running in his head since the previous night. He knew that if Sherlock’s Gift for observing ever came into play in the next few minutes, the whole thing would come crashing down his ears, and he would lose the chance to get to know this man who had strangely captivated him from the start. 

_Calm down, Watson._

He lifted his hand to use the brass knocker, but even before he could grasp the metal handle the door flew open, revealing an elderly woman in a flowered apron and a wide smile. “Oh, Doctor Watson! You’re here!” 

John smiled back. “Mrs. Hudson, I presume?” 

“Yes, yes, that’s me,” she said, ushering him forward and into the foyer. “Please, come in from the cold. This building isn’t all that new, and I’d only just started the heater in the apartment you wanted to see –”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not expecting it to be all snug at this point. I just really wanted to see if it had potential.” He glanced towards the stairs, feigning surprise. “I didn’t know you had an upstairs apartment as well?”

“Oh, yes, but that’s already occupied.” Mrs. Hudson rummaged through her pockets quickly, then triumphantly fished out a set of keys. “A-ha! Here we go. Come on, Dr. Watson, let’s go visit 221C.” 

John went with her agreeably, casting a surreptitious glance up as he passed the flight of stairs, catching sight of a landing but nothing else. “Uh, so … you said 221C is a basement, right?”

“Yes. Can’t seem to get anyone interested in it, to be honest. It’s the mould, I expect. Curse of basements.” She stopped in front of a door that was further protected by an iron gate and began to unlock it. “But don’t worry. If you decide you like it, I’ll call on my neighbour Mrs. Turner. Her Gift is in cleaning; she’ll have it all spic-and-span in a trice, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Hudson,” John said politely.

Mrs. Hudson finally managed to open all the locks and, giving the door a hard tug, swept her hands towards the space in a magnanimous gesture. “Here you go, Doctor. 221C.”

It was a small apartment, though still bigger than John’s current bedsit. There was a very old-looking fireplace in one corner, a single window that let the sunlight in, and not much else, unless one counted the black mould that ran around the lower part of the walls and the peeling wallpaper, and his heart frankly dropped into his stomach. “Well. This all looks … lovely, Mrs. Hudson,” John forced out. “But you’re right. It does need fixing.” _A damned lot of fixing._ “I’ve, ah, never lived in a basement before.”

“Oh, really? My first place with my husband was just like this, you know. Damp.” She peered at him worriedly, as if she had suddenly realised that she was jeopardising her own chances of getting a new tenant. “But charming. Surely you see that? It’s charming, isn’t it, Doctor Watson?”

“Yes, charming,” John smiled, trying for reassuring and knowing he probably ended up with something more like a grimace. “I did say I had never lived in a basement, but I’m up for something new at this point, anyhow.”

“Are you now, _Doctor_ Watson?” A deep voice came from the doorway, and John didn’t even have to fake the look of surprise that came to his face when he turned around to see Sherlock there. “Mrs. Hudson, I thought you said you’d keep this one free for my experiments?”

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands. “Oh, Sherlock, the rent –”

“You.” John cut in, loud enough to be heard over Mrs. Hudson’s squawks, and she immediately fell silent, her eyes wide. “The other night. That was you.”

Sherlock inclined his head, a gesture that reminded John forcefully of Mycroft. “Indeed, Doctor Watson. Or should I say … _Captain_?”

Mrs. Hudson blinked, then looked at John. “But … I thought you said you were a doctor?”

“I  _am_ a doctor,” John said, straightening his shoulders and feeling rather defensive. “I am a doctor, and a Captain, both.”

“An Army doctor,” Sherlock said slowly, flicking a quick glance at Mrs. Hudson, then returning his full attention to John. “Are you any good?”

John lifted his chin. “ _Very_ good.”

“And you’ve seen a lot of violent deaths, then?”

“Yes, of course.” John answered, and in his mind’s eye he saw a cloud of ash, billowing in the strong desert wind. “Far … too much.”

The taller man looked at him, his lips quirking into a small smile. “Excellent. Follow me upstairs, then, Captain, if it’s convenient. And if it isn’t … come upstairs anyway.” 

Sherlock turned away in a dramatic swish of coat, and John couldn't help but follow his every movement with his eyes. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, who was watching him rather bemusedly. “You must be wondering …”

She merely raised her brows.

John felt himself blushing. “No, no, it’s not at all what you think. We met a few nights ago, there was a party –” 

“Oh, don’t bother explaining, dear,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, waving his explanation away. “Just go on ahead. I’ll just be here, anyway, and if you’ll still be needing the space, just knock on 221A.”

“Will do,” John said quickly, moving towards the door. “Thanks for the tour. I’ll let you know what I decide within the day, I promise.”

Mrs. Hudson only nodded with what he could only describe as a knowing smile, and John could swear that he felt her eyes on his back as he left.

 

+

 

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, strangely enough, when John finally made it up the seventeen steps to his apartment.

John stepped cautiously inside the sitting room, noting the fireplace (empty) and the skull that was perched on the mantle (a real one); there were two chairs right in front of it, a squashy, comfortable-looking red chintz and a chrome-and-black-leather affair. Instinctively he went towards the red one, knowing that it would fit him more than the other, but caught himself mid-stride. His host was not around, after all, and he didn’t yet know if he was welcome to sit anywhere – Mycroft had warned John of Sherlock’s eccentricities, although what they were, precisely, he did not know; he had not  _wanted_ to know – and it was entirely possible that one of those was a particularity towards what he might consider his personal space. John did not want to risk being thrown out this early in the game.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Sherlock said impatiently, startling John; he had come from behind, ostensibly through a door that seemed to connect the staircase, the kitchen, and what seemed to be two more rooms beyond. He had also apparently discarded his coat – he was now down to shirtsleeves and what seemed to be tailored trousers – and was crossing the room to sit on the leather chair. “Sit down.”

 John walked slowly over, mentally crossing out _particular about personal space_. “Thanks,” he said, cautiously, as he sat down.

As soon as John’s bum touched his seat, Sherlock leant forward, steepling his fingers under his chin, looking at John as if he were some sort of puzzle to be solved. “So. Doctor Watson. Or Captain Watson, whichever you prefer.”

“John.”

“I’m sorry?”

John shrugged. “John. I prefer to be called John. My first name, you know.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “All right. John.” 

“And you’re Sherlock, unless I misheard Mrs. Hudson.” John gave him a small smile. “You never _did_ introduce yourself to me the other night, you know. Just … pulled a disappearing act.”

“Dinner was called. There would have been mingling and _people._ Tedious.” Sherlock shook his head, as if the very memory bothered him. “Besides, I was sure that my brother would ask to talk to you by the time supper was over, and I do avoid talking to him if I could at all help it.”

John kept his face carefully free of expression. “Your brother?”

“Yes. Don’t pretend you haven’t met him. Although to be honest, if I’d met him for the first time I’d try to pretend I haven’t either.” When John did not respond to that statement, he added, with a touch of irritation, “Mycroft. I’m talking about Mycroft Holmes. My older brother.”

“Mycroft Holmes. Your older brother,” John echoed.

“A fact that I try daily to forget.”

“But I don’t understand. When you sat down beside me … why didn’t you just say so?”

“You’ve met him, John. Tell me, would being his brother be something that you would tell other people willingly?”

John considered. “Fair point.”

“And knowing my brother, he most likely gave you a job. Something to do with monitoring me, and the pay would have been stupendously large to get you to agree. Mycroft thinks money solves _everything._ ” Sherlock sat back into his chair with a curious mix of triumph and disgust on his face. “That _is_ why you are here, isn’t it? And don't even think of lying to me; you know what I can do, it won’t work.”

Smiling, John shook his head. “You might be surprised to know this, but the answer to that is no.”

Sherlock’s brow raised in disbelief. “Impossible. That nosy git always tries to insinuate himself into my life. That you are a protector would make him even more determined to try and recruit you.”

“Well, I can tell you with complete honesty that I am neither employed nor paid any amount by Mycroft Holmes to be here. Although I admit to having met him and agree that he is an extremely nosy git.” John rubbed his palm absently on the couch, watching the way Sherlock grinned with ill-concealed pleasure at John’s last sentence. “I just really needed a new place to stay in, something nearer to a clinic I’d been accepted to …”

Sherlock’s grin faded. “A clinic? Please. You haven’t even practiced your learned profession since you came back. Besides which you are already employed by the British Security Forces --” 

“ _Used_ _to be_ employed,” John said, raising a finger to emphasise the point. “I quit.”

“You … quit? But why?” Sherlock frowned. “You must have an extremely powerful Gift to have been able to withstand that explosion; the amount of semtex strapped to that assassin’s chest should have levelled a twenty-storey building. And yet you not only shielded everyone; you _enclosed_ yourself within the detonation and survived while the would-be assassin was practically _obliterated_. How could they have let you quit?”

John shrugged. “I’m getting too old for all that. I did survive, but I also had to stay in hospital for almost two weeks. Not something I want to do again.” 

Sherlock sat back even further into his seat, hands now on the chair’s armrests, studying John in silence and narrowing his eyes as if in suspicion, most likely searching for any sign of duplicity. John forced himself to stay quiet, not wanting to disturb that strangely intense focus, and instead studied Sherlock in return. He noted the long, tapering fingers of Sherlock’s left hand, which were now tapping in an absentminded sort of rhythm, and idly wondered whether that meant that he played the piano or something similar. After all, those sorts of fingers would most likely be dexterous –

John wrenched his eyes away from Sherlock’s fingers, willing the train of thoughts away.  _Focus, Watson,_ he scolded himself even as he glanced surreptitiously up at Sherlock’s face, but the other man didn’t seem to have noticed the sudden turn of John’s thoughts and looked to be deep in his own. John heaved a small sigh of relief and, determined to keep his mind on the business at hand, finally decided to just settle down into the chair to await judgment, busying himself with studying the wall pattern just to occupy his mind. It was surprisingly easy, noting the curling patterns and the way it gave off a homey, if slightly claustrophobic, atmosphere when it was lit by the late morning sun, dust motes dancing slowly through the air. Besides, the chintz really _was_ as comfortable as he thought it would be, especially for someone who hadn’t had much sleep for months …


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and so the adventure begins ...

The unmistakable sound of an explosion rang in John’s ears, and he was rolling low on the ground and calling on his shield before he even realised he was awake. His heart hammered loudly in his chest and his head spun; sputtering, he inhaled the acrid odour of smoke – smoke, ash, sand, burnt flesh …

He called once more on his Gift and now his orb sprang, readily, onto his open palm, lengthening into a spear which he planted onto the floor, using the momentum to help him swing to his feet. He bent his legs as he did, tensing his muscles for either flight or fight, and was slightly surprised to feel himself slide slightly forward, his spear losing its footing as it took on his weight. Since when did sand feel … slippery? 

John looked down and blinked. There was a carpet at his feet – a red Oriental carpet. What was a carpet doing in the –

“Bloody hell,” he cursed out loud as the rest of the room swam before his eyes – he was not in the desert; he was in an apartment, one that had carpets slung around on the wooden floor and a pair of mismatched chairs sitting in front of a fireplace.

A pair of chairs. A fireplace. An apartment.

An explosion.

_Fuck._

John whirled around, his spear now shrinking into a silver dagger, and when his eyes finally found the lone figure of Sherlock at the dining table he let out a breath of relief that he hadn’t realised he was holding. Sherlock didn’t seem hurt; in fact, he was holding a large blowtorch in one hand and a block of some black substance in the other, while a large, charred bowl emitted a few sparks and quite a lot of smoke.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John repeated, finally recalling his orb and shield into himself and rubbing his eyes with the back of a shaking hand, adrenaline still surging through his body. “What the buggering fuck was that?”

Sherlock looked up then, and began pulling off his safety glasses. “Oh. I thought you were still asleep.”

“Asleep? You expect me to be asleep while you … blew things up?” John exhaled loudly. “Jesus. What were you doing anyway? Couldn’t you have waited until I was actually awake?”

“I was trying to find out the combustion rate and strength of hexamethylenetetramine once exposed to paraformaldehyde and a source of heat; apparently it takes no more than five seconds and, under certain conditions of enclosure, could create a small explosion.” Sherlock shrugged and looked back down at the bowl, prodding it with his extinguished blowtorch. “Besides, you were being boring.”

John blinked, his mind latching on to the only words that made sense to him in the whole monologue. “Boring? I was being … boring?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Once I had finished going through my Mind Palace –”

“Mind Palace?”

“Yes. Everything I need to remember is stored in my Mind Palace; that way I do not forget anything.” Sherlock put the torch down and began to sniff the block as he spoke. “As I was saying, I had come out of my Mind Palace and you were asleep, so we could not continue our discourse even if I had already come to a mutually pleasing decision. What else was I supposed to do?”

“How about nudging me gently and waking me up?”

“As I said. Boring.”

John closed his eyes briefly. “Fine. I’m awake now. Let me just kip downstairs and –”

“No need. Mrs. Hudson’s already agreed.”

“—I’ll tell – wait. I’m sorry? Agreed to what?”

“That she ought to keep 221C for my experiments. No one would really want to rent that room; it’s draughty and damp. In fact, I stored a collection of skin samples of varying thicknesses in one corner last month; one grew mould so fast that –”

“Hang on,” John said, feeling rather like he had been caught in a whirlwind that threatened to bowl him over completely if he did not bring it to halt. Immediately. “You … _rented_ 221C? For your experiments?”

Sherlock looked up from the block and frowned, as if John was being deliberately slow. “I hate repeating myself, John, so do keep up. I already told you: I’ve come to a mutually pleasing decision, and I have spoken to Mrs. Hudson. That’s why she has agreed to rent me the place.”

“Mutually … pleasing …” John shook his head, his brain seemingly stuck on a loop; now nothing was making sense at all. “But … I was going to rent it.” 

“No, you weren’t,” Sherlock said confidently. “The damp and cold will exacerbate the conditions of your old shoulder injury; it would very likely keep you from healing quickly from the latest ones – you’re a doctor, however out of practice you might be; surely you know this. Besides, whatever additional expense I would incur from leasing that room would be offset by your additional input towards the rent of this apartment. An ideal situation all around.” 

“The rent … of _this_ apartment?” John rubbed his left eyebrow with a thumb in an attempt to dispel the growing pain that was beginning to throb inside his skull; the Holmes brothers, if anything, seemed guaranteed to cause him headaches.

“Yes. That’s how flat shares work, don’t they? We split the rent, and it would, in turn, allow me to use the other half of what I usually pay Mrs. Hudson to cover 221C.” 

“And … that’s it?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “That’s it … what?”

“We’ve only just met, and now we’re going to share a flat?”

“Problem?”

“The problem?” John shook his head; it may have been his intention to get Sherlock to trust him enough to allow John to live nearby, but he certainly did not expect to be asked to live _with_ the man. “We don’t really know each other, Sherlock. For all you know I could be a psychopath with a death wish.”

“Oh, come on, John, I already know _that_ ,” Sherlock grinned suddenly, and the expression made his features somehow younger. “You invaded Afghanistan.” 

Unbidden, John felt an answering grin form on his face. It _was_ a fair point. “That wasn’t just me.”

“Same difference.” Sherlock finally stood up, discarding his tools on the table carelessly and walking slowly towards John, his gaze steady. “And as for me … I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end … would that bother you? Flat mates should know the worst about each other, after all.”

John’s mind now went blissfully blank as he watched Sherlock’s movements, sinuous and graceful as a prowling cat, and somehow found that he could not refuse him anything. After all, a voice at the back of his brain helpfully supplied, a little music never hurt anyone, and if Sherlock didn’t want to chat, the silence would probably be _nice_. How bad could a combination of those things be? “I – no. No, it wouldn’t bother me at all.”

“Then that’s settled … John,” Sherlock said softly in his impossible baritone, and he was now a few steps away, his eyes seemingly turning silver in the dim light. And was it John’s imagination, or was Sherlock paler, his cheekbones sharper, his lips somehow plusher than he remembered? “Don’t you think so?” 

“Y-yes,” John managed, feeling oddly dazed. Sherlock was about an arm’s length away from him now, and he was coming closer, still closer …

The wail of police sirens pierced the relative quiet of Baker Street, blue and red lights flashing across the windows; John winced at the suddenness of the sound, instinctively turning away from Sherlock as he heard the front door open and close in quick succession and beginning to call on his shield out of reflex.

John felt Sherlock’s hand clamp around his upper arm; he looked up, and as soon as their eyes met again John’s shield wavered and disappeared promptly. “Not a threat,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head once. “Detective Inspector Dimmock.” 

John could only stare as Sherlock let go of him and walked away, crossing the sitting room to flop gracefully on the leather chair, but even with the outwardly relaxed posture Sherlock’s gaze remained sharp and focused on the stair landing. Within a few seconds, the so-named detective made his appearance at their doorway, red-faced and panting after having run up the stairs. As soon as he stepped into the room, however, he halted in his tracks, frowning at John in surprised recognition, then at Sherlock, then back at John.

“Captain Watson,” Dimmock said, straightening, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently, as if this were of little import. “This is Captain Watson’s home, Detective Inspector. You can hardly expect for him to be elsewhere.”

Dimmock’s eyebrow rose. “What? Here? But I thought he lived over at –”

“Yes, well, I live here now. Apparently.” John stepped forward, offering a hand to Dimmock in an attempt to stave off further questions – after all, John was still wrapping his own head around the sudden turn of events with regards to his residence, and he figured it was just fair that no one else got to think about it any further before he did. “Detective Inspector. It’s been a while.”

The police officer blinked, and for a second there was nothing but confusion on his face; then, just as quickly, he shrugged and shook John’s hand briefly. “True enough, and good thing, too. My boys are still smarting over that last rugby match; I don’t think they want to see you or Lestrade anywhere near a field.”

“Tell them I’m still open to a rematch,” John smiled. “As soon as I’m fully healed, if you like.”

“Yes, yes, rugby and mud and sweat. Dull,” Sherlock interrupted, waving an impatient hand. “Detective Inspector, I hope you’re not here to discuss _sports._ ”

“No, no,” Dimmock said, flushing. “There’s … ah. A stiff at Lauriston Gardens. Brixton. Can’t make heads or tails of it. Will you come?”

Sherlock frowned but did not look surprised. “Who’s on forensics?”

“Hooper,” Dimmock said.

Sherlock pulled a face. “I know you have great trust in her, Inspector, but her Gift is still more suited to the laboratory.” He flicked a glance at John, and somehow John knew what he was going to say next. “I’ll go under one condition. John goes with me.”

Dimmock’s curious eyes now bounced back and forth between John and Sherlock. “What? Why?”

“He goes with me. That’s my condition. Take it or leave it.” Sherlock shrugged. “Or you can solve it on your own, for once.”

John stepped forward then, watching Dimmock’s face flush at the last statement. For all of Sherlock’s physical charms, John was rapidly discovering that the man had the social IQ of exactly zero. “Sherlock, I don’t know if –”

Dimmock let out a noisy breath, sounding resigned. “Oh, fine,” he said. “God help me, but … fine. Will you ride in the car?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched as though he was trying hard not to smile. “Not in the car. We’ll follow instead; send me the exact address.”

With a curt nod and a last, fleeting glance at John, Dimmock left.

As soon as Dimmock’s steps faded away, Sherlock jumped up from his couch, smiling with the kind of delight that most people would associate with children opening Christmas presents. “Yes! Brilliant!” He strode out briefly to the landing, still smiling, and returned shortly with a blue cashmere scarf that he now began to arrange about his neck. “A case, John! Come on!”

“You mean … you were serious?” John said, slightly bemused, crossing his arms as he watched Sherlock whirl about, gathering gloves, keys, and his mobile phone. “I mean, about me coming with you? That wasn't just … I don't know, proving a point?”

“I don't _need_ to prove a point to anyone,” Sherlock said with enough disdain that convinced John that he was, actually, proving a point despite anything he said to the contrary. “Of course I was serious. I only ever am.” So saying he swept out of the door without so much as a look back to make sure that John was following, as if he were certain that he would.

And idiotic as it might sound, that was precisely what John did … because honestly, at this point – how could he not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to those who continue to follow this story -- your kudos(es) and comments mean the world to me, and keeps me going! Cheers!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the mega-delay for this one; lots of things have come up in recent weeks and I lost the thread of my own narrative. I've resolved to get back into the groove, though, so I hope that I can continue posting as regularly as I used to from henceforth. 
> 
> So if you've been waiting for the next installment of this fic -- thank you, thank you for your patience. I really hope this chapter is worth the wait!
> 
> ~ Summer

The case that had baffled Dimmock and his team took the rest of the day to close. Sherlock had taken a single look at the victim and immediately deduced that she had been forced to take the poisoned pills – information that he had gathered, apparently, from observations regarding her clothing, her jewellery, and a missing mobile phone – and led them unerringly to the suspect. Unfortunately, the said suspect – a murderous cabbie who fancied himself genius enough to elude most of Scotland Yard’s attentions by disguising his kills as suicides – had taken exception to being brought to prison and decided that it was a good day for a rather spectacular chase across London’s rooftops and through some very surprised households. So it was that even with Sherlock's uncanny mastery of London’s pathways and practically half of Dimmock’s force, it took them a while to corner him, and when they did, their quarry had decided to use the gun he held in his hands to shoot the nearest target, who happened to be Sherlock.

John had not planned to bring his Gift out to the fore – protectors were highly uncommon, and those who did possess a certain degree of proficiency in the control of such a Gift usually ended up employed by the highest echelons of society and were therefore rarely seen outside of the danger zones – but the moment the gun swerved towards Sherlock all his hesitation dropped away, fear and a surprising fury mingling in his gut even as he took in the slightest widening in Sherlock’s eyes that told him that not even his Gift for observation had prepared him for that move.

Before anyone else could react, John quickly stepped forward, calling on his shield as he did so, throwing up a superheated one that caused the bullet to disintegrate halfway and disappeared as soon as the threat was past. Without breaking stride, he drew on his silver orb, pulling an extra thread of power to make it dazzle-bright as he split it into a dozen and bade them surround the suspect, hoping he would be sufficiently cowed by the display and give himself up.

True enough, the cabbie’s eyes grew wide with fright, his eyes frantically trying to follow the orbs around him that glowed like miniature suns – but instead of throwing himself at the policemen, he turned and threw himself out the nearest window, down to the alleyway below, only to land with a sickening thud on a pile of garbage.

 

+

 

John stood up and brushed what mud he could off his pants, letting the paramedics take over from where he had started. They had taken a while to arrive and, being the only medical doctor on hand, John had to perform what he could in terms of life support on their suspect (Jeff Hope, as Sherlock had helpfully supplied). It really had been much too long since he had done something of the sort, and now, in sudden and abrupt realisation, his shoulder began to ache with the memory, his fingers tingling as he deliberately took one, two, three steps away. 

_Ruined faces with sightless eyes, limbs hanging useless … ash, wind, and sand … the pull, the violent, sudden pull from within him, golden light welling between the fingers of his clenched fist, burning, burning …_

“John,” Sherlock’s voice cut through his thoughts, startling him. “Are you alright?” 

John looked up to see Sherlock looming over him; for a split-second his figure was overlaid on a field of bodies and a bloody Afghan sun, but then John blinked and the image was gone. John shook his head quickly to clear it, automatically seeking refuge in deflection. “You’re the one whose brains could have been decorating that third-floor flat right now. And you’re asking _me_ if I’m alright?”

For a few beats Sherlock stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face. John braced himself for the inevitable questions that he usually got from people who happened to be around him whenever he had flashbacks, but to his surprise Sherlock simply turned away and shrugged, looking up at the window through which the cabbie had hurled himself. “The man’s hand was shaking. A killer, yes, but a passive one, not acclimatised to holding such a weapon.” He looked back at John with an air of determined nonchalance. “At the worst he would have clipped my ear and given me a terrible haircut.”

John grinned at Sherlock, a silent thanks. “Or he could have gotten lucky and blown your skull open. Ever thought of that?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “In which case, it wouldn’t have been a problem, at least not for me.”

With a nod and a sigh, John let the conversation go _._ “So this is what you do, huh? You help the Yard with cases?”

“Yes. I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“Consulting detective?” John asked distractedly as he watched the medical team lift the heavy stretcher into the waiting ambulance and feeling the tingling in his fingers finally ebb slowly away. “What’s that, exactly?”

“When the police find themselves out of their depth – which is all the time – they consult me. As you have just witnessed.” Sherlock had taken his gloves out of his pocket and begun to pull them on. “I have a near-perfect solve rate.”

John heard the pride in his voice and could not help but smile. “Oh? Near-perfect? What happened to the other cases?”

“Police idiocy,” Sherlock said, sniffing in affront. He tugged the flaps of his coat tighter about himself and turned the collar up against the chill wind. “Evidence lost. Crime scenes tampered with, sometimes utterly destroyed. I can’t do what I do without _data_.”

“You mean your Gift doesn't pick up things without it?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “My Gift?”

“Yeah. Your Gift for observation, wasn’t it?” John frowned. “Although I thought the way Gifts worked was that you could pretty much pull something out of nothing. It  _is_ what you use to solve the cases, isn’t it? Your Gift?”

“Ah,” Sherlock said briskly, pulling out his scarf from somewhere inside the pockets of his coat and winding it about his neck, busying himself with tying it just so. “Yes. My Gift. Technically. But Gifts such as mine do not fabricate what it sees and assimilates. It helps me make sense of the evidence, but I have to have the evidence in the first place.”

_Well, that made sense_ , John thought, but did not give it voice; for some reason he felt that Sherlock did not seem to be very comfortable discussing his Gift, and he knew that the very least he could do for his flatmate’s earlier consideration was a reciprocation of the act. Besides, the discussion of a Gift was a very private matter, usually reserved for family or close friends, and John knew he was neither. He cast around in his mind for other suitable topics, but Sherlock had finished fussing and beat him to it.

“It’s getting late,” Sherlock said, gesturing towards the sky with one cocked eyebrow. “Dinner, then?”

John pushed his fists into his own jacket for warmth and nodded gratefully. “Starving,” he admitted.

A brief smile appeared on Sherlock’s face before he turned away and started walking. “Then follow me, Doctor Watson. Chinese awaits.”

John allowed himself an answering grin before catching up with Sherlock, and together they moved off into the night.

 

+

  
A text message came right before John managed to drop off to sleep, back in his bedsit, his body worn out not only by the day’s excitement and his continued recuperation but also because packing his belongings – meagre as they were – had still taken longer than he thought it would.

          | _Just a day and you’re already solving crimes with my brother. I believe I may have underestimated you. – Mycroft Holmes_  

John frowned at his phone as he typed his response. How did Mycroft get his number? He didn’t recall giving it. 

          | _People usually do._

His phone beeped again.

          | _Rest assured that I will not make the same mistake again. You have my thanks for saving my brother’s life today. As I’ve said: I can fully compensate you for your trouble. –_ _Mycroft Holmes_  

John shook his head in consternation. Nosy git.

          | _My answer remains the same._  

A last message came in.

          | _Very well. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me. – Mycroft Holmes_

John fought the brief but very strong temptation to send Mycroft a photo of him flipping the bird; with a sigh, he decided to simply refrain from replying, deleting all the messages before turning his phone off and replacing it on the nightstand.

 

+

 

That night his dreams still featured a battlefield – but instead of sand, all that was under his feet were the blinking lights of London as he surveyed them from a rooftop.

 

**~ END OF PART 1 ~**  

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock watched John Watson sleep. 

It was absurdly fascinating.

The fact of the matter was, Sherlock could watch John Watson do just about anything – sleeping, eating, typing (even if his two-fingered technique often drove Sherlock crazy), making tea – anything at all, and Sherlock would, and could, watch with the same level of interest and intrigue as, say, finding out how paint reacts when combined with fatty tissue and hydrochloric acid. Or maybe calcium hypochlorite with brake fluid. Not that watching John was explosive, but still.

Three months, one week, and five days, Sherlock mused, now running his eyes over John’s sleeping form, noting the slight change in breathing pattern that told him John was either going to wake soon or turn over for a change of position on the couch. It had been over _three_ _whole_ _months_ since John had moved in and Sherlock still watched him continuously, avidly, if secretly – and it was an almost single-minded focus that had yet to wane on his end, broken only by cases and some of the most pressing experiments that he had to run for his own elucidation; but even then the question of John Watson was not put aside but merely placed on hold, to be taken out again and examined whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Such as this one.

John sighed in his sleep, and Sherlock slouched further down in his couch, ready to feign nonchalance rather than be caught watching his flat mate – even in his own limited understanding of how the world worked, Sherlock knew that such things would most likely be deemed as A Bit Not Good by anyone, and it could only be worse if John were to catch him at it – but thankfully the object of his attention slept on even as he shifted, and, apparently finding the space even more limited than his own twin bed, simply shuffled closer to the corner where the back rest met the seat, tucking his head more firmly on his pillow and his arms in to conserve space: a soldier used to makeshift spaces, even in slumber. The movement reminded Sherlock of the fact that, despite all the outward appearances of a quiet man in frankly hideous jumpers and an inordinate fondness for tea and toast, John was – is – a dangerous man, a powerful protector who, for some reason, had decided to quit a career in the British Security Forces to seek the nondescript life of a general practitioner.

A conundrum, that. While John claimed that he had had enough of the frequent danger he found himself in while working for the high and mighty, Sherlock also knew that his position at the local clinic – a safe and predictable place of employment, unless one counted the odd case of strep amongst the ones of gout and rheumatism – bored him to death. John had never said so outright, but Sherlock reads it nonetheless in the weariness of his face and in the line of his shoulders when he comes home from the surgery; he reads it in the shift in his stance and the sudden twinkle in his eyes whenever Sherlock pulls him away from the humdrum to go on wild goose-chases across London’s streets and into interminable stakeouts. No – if there is anything that Sherlock is certain about when it came to John Watson, it was that he lived, just like Sherlock himself, for the thrill of the chase, for the blood it pumped into their veins, for the siren call of the Work, for the uncertainty that perpetually had them walking on the fine edge of excitement and danger. It was a drug, and it was drug of choice for the two of them, binding them together in a way that no one else had bound themselves to Sherlock.

So if Sherlock’s suspicions proved true – and he was quite certain of his own conclusions – what then should he make of John Watson? Why would an adrenaline junkie with a suicidal streak decide to do the precise inverse of what he longed to do? It wasn’t for lack of power; Sherlock had seen John call on his Gift a handful of times now, and every single time it took his breath away – watching John transform from benign-jumper-wearing-tea-making John into I’m-in-charge-and-I-won’t-take-your-shite-sitting-down John, with no sign of his Gift waning in any way, as so often happened to individuals whose Gifts pull so much from their life force. Neither was it for lack of opportunity; in an attempt to suss out the truth Sherlock had hacked into the MI5 files as soon as John had fallen asleep that first day he presented himself at Baker Street, and found that not only had John _resigned_ from the British Security Forces, as he had said he did – a move that was practically unheard of – he had also actively _turned down_ at least five highly lucrative offers for private employ, no doubt coming on the heels of his heroic rescue of Lord and Lady Lexington, and of course of Sherlock’s very own brother.

Mycroft. Now _that’s_ another cog in the whole moving puzzle that currently occupied Sherlock’s thoughts.

Sure now that John had gone back to sleep, Sherlock straightened himself out on the couch and steepled his fingers under his chin, resuming his observation. Sherlock had been absolutely certain that John’s appearance at Baker Street was at the behest of his meddling sibling: paid handsomely and therefore coerced to tolerate Sherlock’s behaviour in close quarters even as he watched over him, no doubt propelled by Mycroft’s ludicrous belief that Sherlock had no ability to protect himself from enemies, whether personal or by proxy. That the hero who had saved one Holmes would appear so soon at another’s home was too much to be considered a coincidence, and Sherlock had absolutely no faith in coincidences.

So yes. Mycroft played a role in this somehow. But John had sworn, from that first day, that he was not under Mycroft’s employ, and Sherlock – after hours considering his available observation data – had to admit that John had been telling him the truth. In the absence of further information, therefore, Sherlock had decided to believe him, although something still kept him from truly trusting him. After all, there just _had_ to be something John wasn’t telling him, the real reason why he was at Baker Street. That he was here at all did not follow any logic.

The thing was, that Sherlock had gone from not trusting to offering John a flat-share – which he had no reason to do, _at all_ – defied logic as well. It was just that … something convinced him to keep John near, somewhere where Sherlock could observe him, study him, get to know him. His mother, with her Gift for intuition, would most likely have called it _instinct,_ or – God forbid – _gut-feel_ – but Sherlock despised the word so thoroughly that he couldn’t even bear thinking it. Certainly it wasn’t some mumbo-jumbo that made him do what he did; no, it had to be logic, some sort of information that had been subconsciously ingrained in his brain and brought him to the inescapable conclusion that he would be better off with John Watson in his life. What that supposed information was, however, Sherlock had yet to figure out.

  
Sherlock sighed. He was back to square one. Again.

Maybe it was time for a different approach.

_And for that_ , Sherlock thought, _we need a_ case _._

 

+

 

Sherlock paced around the room as John watched him with a mix of bemusement and exasperation. “You can’t keep bugging Dimmock for cases, Sherlock. The man can’t produce cases out of thin air just to amuse you.”

“Then what use is he if he can’t?” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He _needed_ a case, he needed for _John_ to be part of a case. It had been almost a week since he had hatched his new plan of action, and the waiting was pure torture. “And what use are these criminals if they can’t even come up with something interesting?”

“I’ll make sure to ask the general criminal population next time I get in touch with them.”

“It’s been a week, John. A _week_.”

John sighed. “Why don’t you check the blog? Maybe something interesting would come from there.”

“A wife cheating on her husband with a lesbian lover. The public library’s internet isn’t being hacked into; it’s just the head archivist who has been masking his unhealthy interest in pornography by systematically sabotaging their internet connection every time he uses it. Two neighbours in a feud over roses; the other doesn’t know that it’s a rare shrub, so he’s spray painting the buds in hopes that the idiot next door doesn’t notice it until he’s spirited the whole thing away.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand towards the laptop where it rested on top of their work desk. “There. Solved. Ugh.” 

“Sherlock …”

“And they aren’t even _imaginative_ enough. Why couldn’t there be a serial decapitation there somewhere?”

“I’d rather not have any decapitations at all, serial or otherwise, if it’s all the same to you,” John said mildly as he reached forward to pick up the papers where he had left them an hour ago, shaking it out as he opened it and quickly perused the contents. “Here. Boy missing from his home in Newcastle, reported by his businessman father; no clues as to where he had gone, no struggle apparent -" 

“A relative has spirited the boy away, which was why there were no clues nor struggle to speak of. Highest probability would be mother, since she wasn’t mentioned. Father is most likely an alcoholic, possibly has abusive tendencies, but he can’t have that leaking all over the press, he’d lose business – therefore, mother trying to save her child, father trying to save face. Tedious. Next.”

“Three houses burned down in Chelsea –” 

“All owned by the same man, who, you will find, has insured his properties for a hefty sum. Gambling is never a good vice, John, you would do well to remember.”

A fleeting tightness clouded John’s expression, quickly replaced by what appeared to be a forced casualness _._ “But if it leads me to murder someone, I’m sure you’d be perfectly fine with it.”

“Oh, please. As if you would come up with a murder that would be enough of a puzzle to me. You are a protector, John, and subtlety is not your strong suit. You’d kill cleanly, openly, and only if they were a threat.” Sherlock threw himself down onto the leather couch in sheer pique. “God! Where are the creative ones when you need them?” 

John closed his eyes briefly, ran a hand through his hair, then got up. “I’ve no idea. But here’s one – how about coming down to the pub with me?”

“The  _pub_? Whatever for?”

“A pint. Chips. Whatever. You haven’t eaten more than a bite of my toast this morning, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Sherlock snorted. John’s preoccupation with his eating and drinking habits bordered on the ridiculous. “You’re like a bloody gazelle, all legs and arms.”

“As I’ve said before, John, my body is nothing but transport.” Sherlock flopped a hand over his eyes. “I don’t need a pint or chips. What I need is a _case._ ”

“Well then, I wish you luck,” John said, and from the rustling Sherlock gathered that John was putting his jacket on. “I’m off.”

Sherlock listened to the door open and close as John took his leave. He gritted his teeth in futile frustration, feeling restless in his own skin, buzzing with energy that had nowhere to go, feeling akin to a rocket trapped on a launchpad, about to explode. If there was anything he hated more than not having cases, it was having to wait, and whenever he tried to exercise anything akin to patience, he often ended up almost short circuiting. His mind rebelled against stagnation, and waiting was simply stagnation mixed with hopeless anticipation, which made it even worse.

He closed his eyes, attempting to enter his Mind Palace in search of a suitable means of entertainment – surely there was something there that could calm him down? – but it did him no good; without the sounds of John pottering about the flat, everything seemed to be even more unbearably … quiet and boring. If anything, this served to incense Sherlock even further; since when, after all, did he need for someone to be making little tea-sipping or toast-making or paper-turning noises for him to be able to _think_?

With a growl, Sherlock flung himself upright from the sofa and headed for the door. Fine. _Fine_.

The pub it is.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who might still be following this little tale, I apologize for how long this chapter took. I hope its length helps to make up for my lateness!
> 
> ~ Summer

Sherlock had tried to ignore the black vehicle with heavily tinted windows that had been tailing him ever since he had left Baker Street for as long as he possibly could, but once he paused to cross the road, the car somehow managed to sidle in front of him, door silently and immediately opened, effectively blocking his way. He sighed in irritation but knew that trying to avoid it any further would be pointless; the driver was clearly an insinuator and would keep blocking his path until he acquiesced.

He pulled his Belstaff in tightly around his body as he slid into the dark, cool interior of the car, catching only a winking silver glimpse of the driver’s Gift as it was recalled. “I hope there’s a good reason behind your using the taxpayers’ money to set your driver after me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, pulling the door shut with ill grace and turning to face the vehicle’s other occupant.

“I wouldn’t have to do that if you simply answered my phone calls or responded to my messages, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied smoothly from across him, watching Sherlock as he settled himself.

Sherlock paused in his movements even as he glared at his brother incredulously. “And why would I willingly subject myself to _you_?”

“I have it on good authority that the initial interest in your – ah, shall we call it _civic mindedness_? – has significantly increased over the past three months, brother mine.” Mycroft sniffed, looking briefly out of the window. “I’ve told you this before, but I’ll say it again, and with greater urgency: you _need_ to avoid this.”

“On good authority. Hmm.” Sherlock sat back as he narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. He noted the carefully cultivated body posture and facial expression that screamed nothing but aggrieved annoyance, and the slight sheen of sweat on Mycroft’s upper lip that said the absolute opposite. “And since when has this _good authority_ of yours managed to disappear without a trace, despite your best trackers?” 

Mycroft’s expression did not change, registering no surprise at Sherlock’s insight. “Two weeks.”

Sherlock’s brows rose. Tracking wasn’t easy to avoid if one’s Gift did not naturally allow for it, necessitating shielders or perhaps even obfuscators round the clock. Added to the apparent futility of the search despite the length of time in which it had been done boiled down to one thing: this authority – if he was even that – was higher on the ranks than the government had suspected if the group behind these threats were so willing to protect him, so closely and for so long. “How did you even manage to bring him into custody in the first place?”

“By putting to use methods that, clearly, are no longer effective.” Mycroft now shifted his attention to his lap, frowned, then looked back up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “It’s also because of that fact that we have decided to momentarily suspend our efforts to relocate him and have instead decided to focus our energies on protecting those we feel may be prime targets.”

Sherlock considered his brother’s words for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t see how this concerns me. From what you said, this authority of yours has said nothing else in relation to me aside from the supposed increased interest in my – what did you call it? – civic mindedness. Interest does not necessarily mean I would be targeted next, Mycroft.”

“In this situation, it may very well be the case.”

“And if it were?”

“Sherlock, the past months of surveillance have shown that these people _choose their targets carefully_ ,” Mycroft said, enunciating the words with deliberate emphasis. “So far, they have not made demands even as they have killed a considerable number, but I am certain that it is just a matter of time before they have someone in their hands that would break us –”

“Ah. So as per usual, the concern is not about the family member himself, but whether he would become an effective bargaining chip,” Sherlock said coolly, feeling the now-familiar sting of disappointment that he had come to associate with his older brother over the years and shoving it away with practised ease. “I thought I had made my opinion on this very clear, Mycroft – this is your problem, not mine. I can take care of myself.”  

Mycroft shook his head in exasperation. “Why are you so determined not to accept what protection I can provide you as well, Sherlock?” 

“And give you leave to bug every surface of my flat, watch every move I make, decide who I can consort with, jump to conclusions about whether I’m clean or not, send me off to rehab without giving me any choice in the matter?” Sherlock spat. “I will _never_ allow you to do that again, Mycroft. Never again.”

“Oh, come now, Sherlock. Don’t be a child. You need –”

“—nothing from you, Mycroft. I have my own life now. Stay out of it.”

“Everything I have done, I’ve done to keep you safe, whether you believe it or not,” Mycroft said tightly. “You _are_ my only brother.”

“Not because it was any choice of yours; you know we’ve established that a long time ago. Fortunately, ridding myself of your presence is _mine_.” Sherlock shook his head, suddenly weary. “Let me out, Mycroft. I have had enough of this conversation.” 

At that, Mycroft fell silent, gazing at Sherlock for a few beats longer, his face falling back into its usual indifferent lines so completely that it was as if he had put on a mask. With a single raised brow, Mycroft lifted his hand and rapped the glass once with his knuckle, sharply. “Very well. I trust that this drop off location is suitable?”

Sherlock looked out the window, completely unsurprised to see that they had just pulled up to John’s favourite pub and Sherlock’s intended location, the Pig and Whistle; Mycroft, after all, had his uses sometimes. “As you well know.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft said as Sherlock opened the car door and slid out as smoothly as he had gotten in. “And while I imagine that you wouldn’t care to listen to this, either … do be careful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock straightened his Belstaff and spared his brother a final scathing glance; Mycroft met his eyes without flinching. “Sod off, Mycroft,” he said, then turned and walked away without another word.

+

Sherlock’s annoyance over his brother’s insufferable nosiness – alongside a sense of something else that he did not care to examine too closely at the moment – lingered until he managed to open the pub doors; there he was immediately welcomed by such a blast of heat, noise, and general _human nearness_ that every other thought he may have had was wiped blank and replaced with the idea of simply backtracking and walking away. At that precise moment, however, Sherlock also managed to spot John in the dense dinner-and-drinks crowd; his flatmate had already taken off his coat and was now easily recognizable in his oatmeal jumper – an apparent, if unfortunate, favourite of John’s. (God only knew how many times Sherlock had tried to destroy the wretched thing, but unfortunately, it was as if John had some sort of sixth sense whenever Sherlock had any dark designs on this particular jumper and managed to thwart all his attempts so far.)

Sherlock had a moment of internal debate – he could still leave, after all, and John would be none the wiser. The thought of nothing else to occupy him but his brain and boredom in Baker Street, however, steeled his resolve; here, at least, he could amuse himself by deducing every idiot around him, and if he was lucky, perhaps someone would even commit a spectacular crime and give him the opportunity to test his hypothesis with regards to John.

Decision made, Sherlock picked his way towards the bar where John sat, and when he finally managed to get around a large crowd of clearly inebriated teenagers (Sherlock did think that the granting of legal age shouldn’t have to coincide with the official registration of Gifts at eighteen, but then he had a special fondness for any law that helped him get from under his brother’s thumb as soon as he possibly could, so he kept his opinion on that private) he saw that John was actually engaged in conversation with a silver-haired man in a hastily-slapped together suit and tie. Sherlock frowned at the man, briefly consulting his Mind Palace for the list of John’s army comrades and secret service colleagues since this man obviously had been in one or both, but was only able to pull up a last name – someone named Lestrade, apparently. Ah, the one who played rugby with John, the one that Inspector Dimmock did not want to see near a field.

An unfamiliar twinge took up residence in Sherlock’s gut at the thought that John had called _someone else_ to accompany him to the pub tonight, but even Sherlock had to admit that he had been rather vigorous with his protestations earlier, so it was quite understandable that John would try and find some other person who would want to be surrounded by the smell of sweat and grease and stale alcohol, unlike Sherlock. He shook himself mentally; as was his wont, he didn’t dwell overlong on the uncomfortable sensation, and instead filed it away in the John wing of his Mind Palace for future examination, stepping resolutely forward.

His approach went unnoticed on John’s part, given that John’s back was turned, but his companion – this Lestrade – immediately perked up as soon as he saw Sherlock and reached over to nudge John’s shoulder with a closed fist.

“Oi, have you been out that long, Cap? Someone’s looking for you,” Lestrade said, cheerfully, now pointing openly at Sherlock.

Sherlock went to stand beside John and barely kept himself from glaring at Lestrade. “No, he hasn’t been out _that_ long, and yes, I was looking for him.” He looked down at John, who had initially tried turning his bar stool unsuccessfully to look around at Sherlock and was now staring up at him as if he had sprouted three heads. “Oh, for God’s sake, John, stop looking like you’d witnessed a bloody miracle. You _did_ invite me to come with.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it.

Lestrade guffawed loudly. “Oh my God, this is precious. You got the missus worried, Cap! Told you to text him!”

“Ha. You’re one to talk where it comes to worried significant others,” Sherlock said acerbically before John could even begin to reply. “Divorced twice, both wives having left you with one child apiece, one of whom desperately wants a dog that you cannot give. Difficult to do so when you live in a walk up, is it? I am, admittedly, not a counsellor, but if you had gone to see one, any idiot with that Gift would know to tell you that – oh!”

The flush on Lestrade’s face had gone steadily darker as Sherlock continued with his monologue, but his eyes were not narrowed in anger; instead, he blinked at Sherlock, glanced at John as if Sherlock had been an incredibly clever party trick that John had managed to procure for him, then looked back at Sherlock with undisguised intrigue. “Oh? Oh what?”

“You actually _did_ see a counsellor, it was your – what, third appointment today? That’s why you left your job, you’ve been told that to win either wife back –”

“Hang on,” John finally managed, frowning and holding a finger up in a commanding gesture. Despite himself, Sherlock fell quiet; John very rarely trotted out his ‘Captain Watson’ voice, and, like every instance in which he would use his Gift, the change that came over John was nothing short of remarkable and, in Sherlock’s opinion, always worth witnessing. “Greg, you hadn’t told me this. You’ve left the service as well?”

Lestrade sighed, his shoulders drooping in defeat as he nodded miserably. “Yeah. Like genius over there said.” He grabbed his pint where it stood on the bar counter and took a quick sip. “Took a leaf out of your book, Cap. Figured I should maybe make a go of a normal life, so when Dimmock gave me a call a few days ago to ask if I was willing to come back to the Yard –”

“New Scotland Yard? _That’s_ making a go of a normal life? Greg, Louise left you precisely because you were so buried in your work at the Yard, remember?” John shook his head.

“Well, I don’t really know what else to do, and it’s where my Gift had always been best used,” Lestrade said defensively. “Not all of us have medical degrees under our belts, Cap. I mean, what would you have me do instead? Find runaway cats or something?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. “You’re a tracker.”

Lestrade didn’t respond and instead looked back at John. “You weren’t kidding when you said he keeps rolling out the … what did you call it, Cap?” 

“Deductions,” John supplied, breaking into such a proud grin that Sherlock could not help but preen, just a little. “I told you.”

“Yeah, you did, you definitely did.” Lestrade now shifted his attention to Sherlock, giving him an appraising look, and, much to Sherlock’s dismay, he suddenly knew exactly what Lestrade was going to say next before he even next spoke. “But you also said it was his Gift. But then if it’s his Gift, how come –”

A loud bang suddenly resonated through the pub, and, in almost perfect synchronicity, all heads – including John’s and Lestrade’s – turned towards the now-open back door and the wild looking young man who stood in the middle of it even as Sherlock silently breathed in relief, inwardly thanking John’s continued cluelessness and cursing Lestrade’s surprising astuteness.

_Close call …_

The young man wrung his hands in supplication, looking around at the surprised crowd. “Help, someone, please –” 

All conversation now forgotten, Sherlock watched as John instinctively jumped into action, making his way swiftly towards the young man, muttering brief but polite requests for people to move and let him pass. Sherlock exchanged a quick look with Lestrade, and without a word, both of them proceeded to follow in John’s wake, eventually finding themselves in the narrow, dimly-lit alleyway behind the pub, joining a small gaggle of onlookers who had been likewise curious enough to step out of the pub along with them to stare at a young woman who was sobbing hysterically but appeared to be otherwise unhurt. 

Turning to the young man, Lestrade’s upper body briefly flared silver as he frowned at him. “What’ve you done to the girl, Nathan?”

The so-named Nathan blanched. “Nothing, sir! I swear! I don’t even know her. Just came out for a bit of a smoke and found her like that, sobbing like she’s fit to explode, and I tried but nothing I said –”

At that, John stepped forward, nearer to the girl, his hands out in a placating gesture. “Sweetheart, I need you to try and calm down for me,” he said, his voice even and confident. “I am a doctor; are you having a medical emergency?”

The girl’s face swivelled towards John’s voice, and Sherlock felt a jolt of surprise – while her eyes continued to stream with tears and her voice shook with her sobs, her face remained completely expressionless. “No, no, no,” she said. “Not you. N-not … you …” 

Undeterred, John continued his slow approach; the girl stood rooted to the spot, tightly coiled tension clearly writ in the lines of her body. Sherlock sensed, rather than saw, Lestrade move a few steps to the left, away now from Nathan and the rest of the crowd; accordingly, Sherlock moved to the right, directly in John’s line of sight, creating a better net of support for John in case she decided to bolt. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart, we’re going to help …” John said placatingly, and Sherlock saw that, in the interim, John had managed to step near enough for the girl to actually be within arm’s reach. Sherlock felt a cold tingle at the back of his neck and felt something push him slightly backward; a quick look told him that John had actually brought out a gossamer thread of his power and was now using it to simultaneously create a wider berth for him and the girl while at the same time pulling her slowly towards him.

Once the girl was near enough for John to reach out and take hold, John recalled his Gift, and immediately the silver threads shrank back towards his body. Suddenly freed, the girl staggered forwards, and John expertly caught her even as Lestrade and Sherlock hurried to come near.

“No!” The girl came alive in the circle of John’s arms, twisting powerfully, her arms flailing. “No, no, n-not you …”

Huffing with surprise and exertion, John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes over the girl’s shoulder. “Sherlock,” he managed between panting breaths, “Could you – maybe hold – I can’t –”

As soon as John mentioned Sherlock’s name, however, the girl stiffened. “Sherlock,” she breathed, ceasing her struggles completely and whirling around despite John’s efforts. “Sherlock Holmes. You. _You_!”

Sherlock frowned; he had never seen this girl before, and while she seemed to have recognized him, her general expression remained unchanged – indeed, her eyes had a flat, inward-looking gaze, almost as if she was listening to – something – or  _someone_ –

The girl closed her eyes, and her hands began to glow golden, faintly at first, then slowly strengthening.

_Young, around seventeen or eighteen. Golden glow … still new to her Gift. Lacks control?_

“Holy mother –” Lestrade muttered as he came up to stand beside Sherlock. “Captain, I think she’s –”

_Both shoe soles slightly melted. Practicing? Fire-related Gift, then. Clothes full of singe-holes, tips of fingers calloused, hair frizzed at the ends as if she had repeatedly weathered blasts of hot wind, no jewellery, not even a single ring or necklace, no identifying markers …_

“—a blaster, John,” Sherlock breathed, turning his gaze towards John. “She’s still new to her Gift, so her radius and impact will be limited, but watch out –”

John blinked at Sherlock – but instead of jumping into action as he normally would, he suddenly drew back as if burnt, took a little stumbling step away from the girl, his face twisting in horror and revulsion. 

Sherlock could feel Lestrade practically vibrate with disbelief. “Cap – what the hell are you doing? If she’s a blaster, you’re the only one who can –”

The girl stepped forward – away from John, who had now apparently surpassed horror and had gone straight to shock. Her eyes flew open, fixing her tearful gaze on Sherlock. “Sh-Sherlock Holmes. H-hello … sexy.”

Sherlock forced himself to tear his eyes away from John – _flashback, Afghanistan, likely associated with his discharge –_ and instead focused on making his mind reel out observations and possible conclusions as quickly as he could. _Stall. Stall for time._ “Who are you?” 

The corners of the girl’s lips went up but the rest of it stayed stubbornly down, as if she were trying to smile, but the rest of her did not agree. “I’ve s-sent you a little puzzle, j-just to s-say hi,” she said.

_Obviously controlled. Remotely? Where? And by whom? No data yet._ “Who’s talking? And why are you crying?”

“I’m not c-crying. I’m _chatting_ ,” the girl answered tonelessly even as she hiccupped through sobs. “And this s-stupid bitch … is just the one s-saying it out loud for me.”

The girl’s jaw twitched; Sherlock could see her now trying actively to keep herself from speaking, but clearly whoever it was that was making her do what she was doing was much more powerful in his or her Gift than she could resist _._ “Twelve hours to solve … my puzzle, Sherlock,” the girl continued. “Or I’m going to be so … naughty.”

_Increased interest in my civic mindedness._

_Someone who had managed to elude Mycroft’s best trackers._

_The curtain rises._

Impulsively, Sherlock stepped forward, stretching out his hand. “Wait –”

The girl looked down at Sherlock’s hand, then back up to meet his eyes. “Wrong answer, Sherlock,” she whispered, slightly sing-song, but for a split-second Sherlock thought he saw a look of sad resignation in the depth of her flat irises before a sharp, unbearable brightness began to spill from her hands, spreading down and outwards onto the ground beneath her.

And all Sherlock had left was a moment to register John’s desperate shout of _Sherlock!_ above the din of frightened screams before a shockwave of concussive heat bloomed in front of him and began to swallow him whole.

 


End file.
